


Because I Care

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Stories of Angst and Heartbreak [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Doctor John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John Watson, Isolated, John Watson essential worker, John Whump, M/M, Podfic, Podfic Available, Quarantine, Sickfic, Whump, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: During the epidemic, John comes back home from the clinic with a fever.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Stories of Angst and Heartbreak [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004232
Comments: 195
Kudos: 479
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection, Sherlock26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Потому что я волнуюсь (Because I Care)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25462294) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)
  * Translation into Español available: [Porque me importa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29245806) by [lockedin221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221B/pseuds/lockedin221B)



> Translation to French available on FFN: [Je m'inquiète](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13791652/1/Je-m-inqui%C3%A8te) by [Mundanchee et Mudomo ](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8636691/Mundanchee-et-Mudomo)

Sherlock was splayed on the sofa, reading the June edition of ‘Accounts of Chemical Research’ journal, when he heard John open the door downstairs. The sound of his characteristic footsteps followed, making the old wooden steps creak, then ceased when John stopped in front of the door to the flat. He was fumbling on the landing, probably taking most of his clothes off to put them in the washing machine, avoiding contaminating anything in their living space, as he’d been in the habit of doing since the pandemic started.

The days John spent away at the clinic, providing essential routine care during the pandemic crisis, were bland and long for Sherlock. Boredom aside, he was not particularly ecstatic about John being in constant contact with people who may have the virus that had already killed millions of people around the world. Even if John assured him that the clinic staff were being careful and following all possible precautions, Sherlock was still sick with worry. 

Waiting for John to enter, Sherlock glanced at his watch and frowned. John had come home several hours earlier than usual. His eyes blew wide as he considered all the possible explanations. Jumping off the sofa as if it were on fire, he flung the door to the landing open. 

John was on his way to the kitchen, wearing just his boxer-briefs with a bundle of dirty clothes in his arms. 

“Did something happen?” Sherlock fired off, inspecting John’s features. The tired doctor’s cheeks were pink, his brow sweaty, his eyes shining with exhaustion. 

“They sent me home,” John turned to Sherlock, and the overhead light that illuminated his face only confirmed Sherlock’s suspicions. 

“You’re sick.” The words came out more accusatory than he’d intended.

“I just have a mild fever and a cough. It’s probably nothing,” John said dismissively. “But I’ll be self-isolating at home for the next two weeks, just in case.”

“What?” Sherlock said in a quiet tone, tilting his head as his imagination burst with myriad horrible scenarios of John dying in agony. 

“There’s no reason to panic. I might just have a cold, I am seeing people with regular colds at the clinic. Or it might be the flu. Sherlock? Are you okay?” John paused, frowning when Sherlock didn’t reply. “I’ll… uh, put my work clothes in the machine.” Hesitantly, John turned around and ventured into the kitchen to put the laundry in.

Sherlock stood there as if paralyzed, analysing the current predicament. John had promised him that he’d been taking utmost care of himself at work and when away from the flat. It was the only thing that kept Sherlock reasonably calm about John still going outside at all. 

“Okay, that’s done,” John announced, walking from the kitchen to the bathroom. “You can keep away from me but if I have it, whether it’s a regular flu or not, you have already been exposed to it, too. Thank God, Mrs. Hudson decided to stay at her sister's for the lockdown.” John looked at Sherlock, still standing on the landing. On the outside, he probably seemed lost in thought, when on the inside he was screaming and shaking. In his head, he was exploding with fear, rage, and anger. The overwhelming feeling of helplessness washed over him and he blinked, meeting John’s gaze.

“Right,” John said, his face expressing slight concern. “I’ll be right back.” He motioned to the door to the bathroom before he disappeared behind it. 

Within moments, Sherlock could hear the shower running, yet he still stood outside of the bathroom door, motionless. He couldn't move. He felt cold sweat trickle down his back, his hands tremble, his head pound... John was sick. 

John could die. 

“Jooohn!” he yelled, releasing all the air his lungs had and collapsing to his knees in the corridor.


	2. Chapter 2

John ran out of the bathroom. Sherlock knew that because he heard the door slam into the wall as it was pushed open, before John’s still-wet, bare feet appeared in his field of vision. He still couldn’t look up. His body felt as if it had been struck by lightning, his nerve endings fried. 

“What happened, Sherlock?” A worried voice, John’s voice, reached him through the foggy haze of panic as a gentle hand touched his shoulder. 

From that point of contact, a calmness spread throughout his body. It didn’t push aside the panic and darkness in him, but rather covered it with a thin veil of pastel blue tranquillity. 

“John…” a whispered sound came out of him, yet he heard it as if it was coming from far away, not from his own throat.

“Are you okay, Sherlock?” asked a calm voice, full of concern. “Can you stand up?” John muffled his cough, but Sherlock could still hear it and feel the rattle of John’s chest deep in his own soul. 

“Yes.” Sherlock looked up, all the way up, to John’s worried face, his blue eyes shining, his hair flat and wet on his head, the overhead light bathing him in an ethereal glow. Sherlock cleared his throat before he spoke, dislodging the lump of fear stuck in there. “I’m fine, I just... Not important.” He lifted his gaze to John’s bare torso dripping with water, then the white towel carelessly wrapped around John’s waist. He would have enjoyed the view a lot more under different circumstances. Right now, he was just hoping that this body, this body he longed to touch, was not going to perish from a deadly virus.

“If you’re sure, I’ll go get dressed.” John started to move towards his bedroom upstairs.

“No!” The wild cry came out of Sherlock unannounced as he slammed his opened palm on the floor.

“Huh?” John frowned, turning around to face him again.

“I mean, yes. I’ll go with you,” Sherlock aimed for a casual tone of voice, but even John wasn’t fooled. 

“Why? Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I need to borrow that journal you told me about last week.”  _ You can’t leave my sight, you can’t. I won’t allow it. I can’t take it. _

John narrowed his eyes with suspicion, then shrugged.

“Come on then.” John extended his hand and Sherlock took it. The feel of being pulled up by John’s capable doctor’s hand gave him the strength to stand up. 

Sherlock followed John up the stairs, his eyes watching John’s calf muscles flex, committing to memory every freckle, every piece of skin and muscle in case he wouldn’t have the opportunity to ever see it again.  _ No! John will be fine! He has to be! But what if I’m wrong? I’ve been wrong before. _

“It’s on the nightstand,” John said when they entered the room. 

Head deep in deadly scenarios, it took Sherlock a moment to realise that John referred to the medical journal they’d discussed. He sat at the edge of John’s neatly made bed and flipped through the magazine mindlessly, listening to John coughing softly, then harder, the raspy sound coming from deep in his chest. 

“Did you take any medication?” Sherlock asked without looking up as he could hear John taking out items of clothing from drawers. 

“I took Paracetamol before I left work, so I still have two hours before I can take another dose.” 

Good. John was a doctor, he was smart, he wasn’t careless, not with anyone’s life and not with his own. Unlike Sherlock, he wouldn’t ignore signs of being sick. Was what he was feeling now, the anger, the fear, the panic, what John had felt whenever Sherlock put his life in danger? No, It couldn’t be. There was no way anyone could experience that level of stress so often and survive. Or maybe John didn’t care that much? Of course, he did… didn't he?

The soft rustle of fabric indicated that John was getting dressed and Sherlock finally looked up to see the top of John’s buttocks disappearing under the boxers he pulled on. Sherlock felt his cheeks redden, but he calmed down quickly, as he’d trained himself to do whenever he had improper thoughts about his flatmate. John would be appalled if he’d known, and Sherlock wouldn’t do anything to disappoint John. 

After pulling a plain grey t-shirt on, John finally turned around. As he walked to the other side of the bed his feet made a wet noise on the floor. He must have not dried them properly; what a silly thing to do, he could slip and... All of this was not important right now, Sherlock thought as he felt the bed dip under John’s weight. 

“I’ll take a nap and wake up in time… oh shit.”

“What happened!?” Dropping the journal to the floor, Sherlock turned around to see John already under the covers, his head on the pillow.

“I left my phone downstairs, I wanted to set an alarm, but you can just wake me up,” John’s fever-ridden face was a stark contrast to his white lips and Sherlock didn’t like what it meant.

“Did you order a test for yourself?” Sherlock asked, hoping it would be just a formality.

“No, I brought one with me.”

“Do the test now, we can send it back tomorrow and then we will know if you have it,” he said in a rapid stream of words.

John sighed, pulling the covers higher to his neck just to toss them aside with agitation. 

“The virus, John! We have to know!”

“Okay, fine. It’s downstairs, next to my phone,” John said, laying back, looking completely exhausted.

Standing up, Sherlock realised he was about to leave John alone. What if he started coughing? What if he needed water? Sherlock looked around the room. There was no water. He had to move fast; the faster he ran, the faster he would be back by John’s side. 

Sherlock rushed downstairs as fast as he could without making too much noise. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the kitchen, grabbed John’s phone and the packet with the test -- both of which had been left on the kitchen counter above the washing machine, and ran upstairs. Miraculously, he didn’t spill the water. 

John’s eyes were closed but his breathing wasn’t even yet.

“John?” Sherlock nudged him with the phone as he sat on the opposite side of the bed. “Book the courier collection before you fall asleep,” he said sternly.

John opened his eyes and looked up with a tired expression. “That was fast,” he mused, taking the phone. A few minutes later, he put it aside and burrowed under the duvet. “I booked it and set an alarm. I’ll be up in an hour and a half.” He looked at Sherlock still sitting on the bed. “Aren’t you leaving?”

“The lighting is good here,” Sherlock lied, as he picked the journal off the floor and opened it to a random page. It was enough of a lame excuse for a tired John to go to sleep in his presence.

An hour had passed when Sherlock felt John turning, tossing the duvet off himself, then laying still on his back.

His lips were parted as he breathed slowly. His body looked like it was on fire. Upon touching John’s chest covered with a sweaty t-shirt, Sherlock surmised that it might as well be. 

“John?” He patted John’s arm, but there was no response. “John!?” Sherlock shook John by the arms. “Wake up, John!”


	3. Chapter 3

“Wake up, John!” Sherlock yelled until his throat hurt, even though he knew he should act instead. There was still over an hour left until John’s next dose of medicine was due but as long as he didn’t take too much over 24 hours, he could have it earlier. First, Sherlock had to cool John’s body to wake him up. 

He threw the duvet off, exposing John’s legs to the cool air of the room, and ran downstairs. For the first time in his life, he was annoyed with the myriad of experiments that littered the freezer. Never before had he looked for actual food in there, which was probably the reason why he couldn’t now find it. 

_ Peas!  _

John always kept frozen peas in case he wanted to make that thing Sherlock liked for dinner. Frantic hands rummaged between the frozen boxes, but alas, there were no peas in sight. Maybe frozen food would be too cold anyway? He knew so many theories, and so many facts were stored in his mind palace, but he’d never taken care of anyone before. This particular set of information he’d deemed useless, and therefore deleted it from his mind palace. Sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor, he felt helpless. 

_ Think...Think!  _

He needed a bowl. Where would John put one? In the bathroom? He frowned, imagining the small tiled room. No, there was no space there.  _ Ha!  _ He opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and there he found a cheap, rectangular washing up bowl. Cold water filled it quickly, and Sherlock was able to head upstairs within moments. The water sloshed out on the stairs as he climbed them, but it was of the least importance right now. Only John’s health mattered.

From a wardrobe in the corner of John’s room, he took out 3 towels, ignoring the stack of linens that fell out, caused by his hurried movements. Dumping them into the bowl made some of the water pour out before the cotton started absorbing it way too slowly for Sherlock’s liking. Only whilst wringing the first towel from the excess of water, did Sherlock realise that his hands were shaking. He clenched his teeth and tried to command his limbs into stillness. _ Come on, Sherlock! John needs you!  _ With resolve coursing through him, he directed his anger and helplessness at the towel, wringing it hard enough for his palms to ache. 

The smallest towel he folded neatly and put on John’s forehead. The contrast between John’s red cheeks and the white terry cloth was too great for Sherlock’s comfort. Following simple logic, the next one should go on John’s chest. Sherlock moved John’s t-shirt up as far as it would go, revealing the abdomen he only had a chance to glimpse several times, when John had walked out of the shower without putting a dressing gown on. Heat travelled to his cheeks in a flash. Appalled by his thoughts, he looked away. He refused to ogle his flatmate when he was possibly in mortal danger. Instead, he busied himself with wringing a bigger towel and laying it gently on John’s chest. With the remaining one, he wet John’s arms, patting them, hoping this would be enough. 

Logically, Sherlock knew that even if John had Covid-19, he wasn’t at a high risk of complications due to it. He had no pre-existing conditions that would put him even at moderate risk, like a lung condition, heart disease, or diabetes, let alone any conditions that would make him high-risk. Logic, however, had nothing to do with his body and heart ridiculously overreacting.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then another to calm himself down. He’d been through a lot in his life, but never had his transport disappointed him so much. Right now, he had to focus, will his hands to stop shaking, keep a calm facade for John. If he saw Sherlock acting out of the ordinary and panicking, it might only fuel his perpetual worry for him. This time, John needed to focus on himself. Sherlock had given enough of a display of emotions for one day. 

“John? Can you hear me?” he spoke softly, still patting the wet towel over John’s arms. 

_ Calm down Sherlock, calm down. _ He could focus more if he took -- No no no, that was out of the question, he had to stay fully lucid for John’s sake. 

Before Sherlock started panicking all over again, not that he really stopped in the first place, John’s eyes fluttered open. The glassy look in them did not bode well, but being awake was a good sign. 

“Sherlock?” John mumbled, then coughed so hard his whole body shook. 

“Drink some water.” Sherlock took the glass from the nightstand to John’s lips.

John reached for his phone and glanced at the time it displayed. “I think I can take the next dose early,” he said, reaching for the pills.

_ You think!? _ Inside, Sherlock shook like he had that time he almost overdosed before Mycroft found him. He felt very similar as well. Outside, however, he just nodded once and watched John swallow the simple medicine that may or may not help at all. 

_ Notes! I need to take notes!  _

“Do we have a thermometer?” Sherlock asked in a neutral tone as he linked his hands together in his thinking pose. 

“Yes, I brought it upstairs with me,” John reached into the nightstand drawer, and put the blue and white plastic device to his forehead. “No wonder I feel like shit,” he commented with a chuckle as he looked at the glowing numbers on it, but Sherlock was in no mood to laugh. 

The device found its way into Sherlock’s extended hand and he typed in the numbers into an Excel spreadsheet he’d created on his phone.

“Do you have any other symptoms apart from a fever and cough?” Sherlock created several more tables on the spreadsheet as he spoke.

“My sense of taste seems fine, as well as my sense of smell,” John replied. “No rash that I could see in the shower. Is that all you need,  _ nurse _ ?”

“It’s not funny, John.” Sherlock levelled a stern look at his flatmate. 

“It is a little bit,” John clearly tried to smile, but his expression looked pained, and Sherlock surmised it was for his benefit that John was being light-hearted. He was a good doctor, and it was unlike him to make light of any kind of illness. Sherlock must have already scared him with the embarrassing breakdown he’d had when John had come home. 

“Let me know when you’ll be able to take the test,” he asked, closing the Excel app. 

“I can do it now if you help me,” John said, already pulling himself up to a sitting position with a grunt. 

They took the test, handling the long swab carefully, and Sherlock packed it according to the instructions attached. 

“You scheduled the pickup for tomorrow, but how long will we have to wait until you know the results?” Sherlock asked, impatience breaking through his calm facade. “I hope it would be faster for you, since you’re a doctor and not --”

“Forty-eight hours,” John replied, rearranging himself on the bed.

No. Nope. Sherlock refused to wait that long. He felt an earthquake start inside him again, so he nodded once as he gritted his teeth.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said calmly before he left the room.


	4. Chapter 4

If he had a pillow handy, he would scream into it from sheer frustration. Instead, he took out his phone. Fingers flew over the keyboard on the screen, and he sent the text in less than a minute. Within seconds, his phone rang. 

“Why are you calling? Was there not enough information in the message I sent you?” Sherlock snapped, walking downstairs to avoid John overhearing the conversation. Mycroft’s voice came loud and clear, sounding even more annoying than usual. 

“I need to make sure you are remaining composed in light of --” 

“Composed? Of course, I’m composed!” Sherlock stomped his slippered-foot on the carpet of the sitting room he’d just entered. “It’s only John’s life that’s at stake! Now, can you expedite the results or can you not?”

“Is it sentiment that is getting to your... heart?” The mocking tone made Sherlock want to commit fratricide but now was not the time.

“Call it whatever you wish, but I will not wait forty-eight  _ bloody _ hours!” His heart rattled in his chest as he yelled into the device. Heat born of fury in the face of helplessness threatened to overwhelm him.

“Your vocabulary slipped, but it helped you get your point across, I suppose.” Mycroft smacked his lips twice. He was probably eating jelly; the no-sugar, nasty kind he pretended to prefer nowadays. “Of course, I would make a phone call and the results will be arranged in due time.”

“Good.” Sherlock took a calming breath that helped only infinitesimally.

“Any other pressing demands, brother mine?” came the collected voice that Sherlock couldn’t stand a second longer. He disconnected the call and slid it into his pyjama trouser pocket. 

“Were you on phone with Mycroft?” John asked the moment Sherlock re-entered John’s bedroom upstairs. “It was hard not to hear you,” he explained, patting the bed in invitation to sit. 

Sherlock nodded, looking at the floor as he sat on the foot of the bed, ashamed of showing his emotional side again.

“I can tell you’re upset,” John said in a soft voice before he coughed nastily into his forearm. “But you have to try to compartmentalise. I know you can do it. I’ve seen you do it, as I’ve seen soldiers do it in dire times. It’s unlike you to be upset over what might as well be nothing. I hate seeing you like this.”

Great. Now even John knew that something was not right with Sherlock. It was as if a dam that he had kept his  _ feelings  _ behind had broken and now he was unable to put it back together and hide behind it.

“What if --” Sherlock’s voice broke and he shut his mouth, looking at John with what he hoped was a collected expression. He failed miserably, as worry remained on John’s face. 

“How about… I don’t know... Do what you always do; treat it like a case,” John suggested. “Treat  _ me _ … like a case.” He shrugged, looking at Sherlock with big, sapphire eyes that shone with his feverish state. The face Sherlock knew so well was full of concern.

“I have…” Sherlock whispered, his fingers tapping his knee as his thoughts raced, each one wanting to beat the other. “I’ve treated you like a case before…”  _ And  _ y _ ou’ve been the greatest case I’ve had the pleasure of never solving.  _ “That approach… It -- it stopped working lately.” 

Thoughts racing.

Fingers tapping.

Heartbeat accelerating.

John’s hand on his forearm, burning with its heat and the meaning of the casual touch.

John’s eyes on him.

With the heel of his free palm, Sherlock hit his forehead hard, but the collision didn’t put his thoughts back into place. If he could only dissociate his feelings for John from the real world, he would be able to stay seated and enjoy the touch of John’s fingers aiming to comfort. 

He hit himself in the forehead again and John’s hands clamped on his wrist, pulling his hand down. “Stop it, Sherlock, I won’t let you hurt yourself,” came John’s soft, but stern voice. “Talk to me…”

Too much... the touch was too much.

Sherlock sprang to his feet and backed himself to the closed door. 

“Tell me what changed. Focus on me,” John asked, not dropping the subject. Sherlock was failing him by making John worry about him instead of himself. 

“Rest, John,” Sherlock replied as calmly as he could muster, determined to hold the broken dam inside himself with the force of his stubbornness alone. He was going to get a grip and help John. His own problems could wait. “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock took a quick shower, standing under the spray a bit longer than necessary. The sound of the running water had a soothing effect on him, and he managed to quiet his racing mind at least a bit. He changed into a fresh set of PJ bottoms and a dressing gown, before heading back to John’s room.

He knocked gently in case John was already asleep, but a welcoming “Come in” let him know that that wasn’t the case.

John didn’t look better, but Sherlock planned to monitor him at all times in case his condition got worse. He sat on the bed and took out his phone.

“What are you doing?” John asked, watching Sherlock make himself comfortable at the foot of the bed.

“I want to input more data into the spreadsheet and I have an idea what else I might need --”

“I mean, here. I’m going to get some sleep. The nap earlier didn’t charge me much and it’s late evening already.” John fluffed the pillow, settling in. 

“I’m not leaving you.” Tiny pinpricks of panic started at the back of Sherlock’s head. John would not get him out of that room. He had to be close enough to check for fever every hour, to make sure John didn’t need anything...

“You wouldn’t. I’ll just be sleeping. You can use the time to do your experiments or try to nap. As a doctor, I’d recommend a healthy dose of sleep for you.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here.” Sherlock stood up, picked up a chair from the corner of the room and placed it right next to the bed. He was sitting on it before John got a chance to protest.

“Of course I don’t mind. I -- umm, I really appreciate it.” He swallowed, his voice full of astonishment and vulnerability. Had Sherlock been hiding his feelings for John so well, that the fact that he cared came as such a surprise now? “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable…” John added, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at Sherlock.

“I’ll be fine here.”

“I mean, the... uhh the bed is big enough… if you want... since you don’t want to leave --”

“No.” Sherlock said a little too fast. “No, thank you,” he added to soften the reply that must have sounded like a rejection. In all honesty, he would love for that invitation to come in a different shape and form; not like this, not out of necessity.

John nodded, laid down, and covered himself with the duvet. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see that the sick doctor was watching him, but he pretended to be typing on his phone rather than acknowledge it.

Within moments, John fell asleep and soon after, Sherlock heard a doorbell downstairs followed by an incoming text on his phone. ‘Give them the test. M.’

Sherlock padded downstairs, carrying the bag with John’s test in it. Anthea was waiting outside with one hand outstretched, the other typing on her phone. She wore a sleek suit and matching face mask, looking as fashionable as ever even though it was almost midnight. 

“When can we expect the results?” Sherlock asked, placing the bag in Anthea’s hand.

“In the morning,” she answered in a flat tone, never lifting her gaze, before she disappeared into a black car parked on the curb.

When he returned to John’s side, he found him still sound asleep, breathing evenly, albeit with a rasp. He wanted to lay next to him, put his hand on John’s sternum to feel it lift with his every breath. Then he would be able to fall asleep himself, with John’s body close enough to feel its heat.

He’d always wanted things he shouldn’t have. Reaching for some of them was riskier than for the others.

Pulling the duvet higher over John’s body, Sherlock paused to look at the sleeping form of the man who’d broken through all his walls and all his defence mechanisms against other people. In Sherlock's head, John was now sitting atop that poorly-glued dam that held Sherlock’s emotions back and waving his legs as if nothing was amiss. There was a chisel in his hand and a sweet, albeit mischievous, smile on his face. 

John had been right, Sherlock needed REM rest in order to prevent his body from shutting down when John needed him most. Logically, he should sleep when John was asleep, but stay close enough to be aware of any disturbance in John’s slumber. 

From the linens that had fallen out of the wardrobe before, Sherlock picked a blanket and a spare pillow. He set the alarm with vibrations only to wake him up every 30 minutes so that he could check up on John. Within moments, he was asleep on the floor next to the bed, dreaming of holding John's free hand while the other worked the chisel on the metaphorical dam.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the night, John still struggles with fever, making Sherlock emotional.

“Sherlock…” the gasped name was followed by a coughing fit.

Sherlock sprang up from the floor where he had fallen asleep. He wobbled on his feet, his body only half-awake, his eyes still getting used to the semi-darkness courtesy of the streetlamp outside. Having had little choice as to space to sleep in John’s room, the floor had been his only option once his transport started to shut down for the night. 

John rasped his name again, and Sherlock knelt on the floor, taking the hand that lay loosely on the bed. Without thinking, he put it to his cold cheek, needing to assure John of his presence.

“I’m here,” he croaked in a sleepy voice, aiming for assurance. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“Water --” John whispered then coughed again, the horrid sound waking Sherlock up fully and filling him with worry anew. Sliding one arm behind John’s upper back, he propped him up. Then he reached for the glass of water, promptly put it to John’s lips, and watched John drink.

He returned the glass to the nightstand. “You’re burning up again,” he said, putting his hand over John’s palm that was still on his cheek. “I can’t give you the next dose for another --”

“You should be asleep,” John interrupted, his voice weak but commanding. 

“I was. Right next to you,” Sherlock closed his eyes and let the heat of John’s war-battered hand permeate him as he let out a long sigh filled with hope that John would be all right. 

“I didn’t know… I couldn’t feel you,” John whispered, his thumb stroking Sherlock’s cheek with such tenderness, Sherlock’s breath hitched. 

“I slept on the floor,” he croaked in reply, affection threatening to undo him.

“Sherlock… you didn’t leave me alone,” John’s voice was full of astonishment, making Sherlock promise himself that if John got better, he would prove that he would never _ ever  _ leave him… again. “I dreamed of the desert,” John continued, his eyes closed. “It was dark and hot.” He kicked the duvet off his lower half with frustration. “I was in hiding. There was sand in my eyes, my ears, and my nose. I was scared… I was so scared. I was burning with the heat of the air. The clothes on me were too heavy, uncomfortable.. It was too hot. Your cheek is cold, Sherlock. You’re always so cold. You feel so good against my hand. Lay next to me…”

“You’re delirious, John,” Sherlock replied with a lump in his throat. He had always been aware that John had nightmares, but they’d stopped a few weeks after they’d moved in together. Now they were back and Sherlock wanted to shield John from the bad memories. He would do anything to help. 

“Please,” John repeated weakly. “I may be feverish, but I’m serious. I need you, Sherlock.”

Anything.

He would do anything.

With a single nod, Sherlock took John’s hand off his cheek and carefully climbed on the bed next to him. John scooted back, making space, but not enough for them to be further than a few inches apart. 

Sherlock lay on his back, his hands held to his sides as stiff as he could manage, not wanting to disturb the sick man. The sheets smelled of John, making Sherlock feel snuggled in a cocoon of musk he could only sense before when he’d encroached on what John called ‘personal space’.

He’d expected being in John’s bed would feel bizarre, or downright wrong. Instead, he relaxed, knowing he was close enough to help, and to reach for… He hoped John was aware that he could count on him, and touch him if he needed or just wanted to. 

“I need to apologise, John,” Sherlock’s low voice sounded too loud in the dead of night.

“Mmmm,” was John’s sleepy reply. He turned and lay his hot cheek on Sherlock’s cold chest, stirring the affection that coursed through Sherlock even more.

“I’m sorry if I ever gave you the idea that I don’t care…” Sherlock whispered, his fingers itching to make their way into John’s hair to stroke it gently. “What I mean is that… you can’t leave me.”

John lay motionless, his raspy breathing piercing the otherwise quiet night. Sherlock waited a moment longer, all the emotions in his heart weighing heavily on him in that moment, hoping John would fall asleep and he could let them all out. When John’s breath remained uneven, he spoke again anyway.

“It terrifies me when I think about what I would do for you. To save you, to protect you, to please you,” Sherlock whispered, feeling that he had to continue now that he’d started. “It scares me. I’m weak. I’ve been hiding it for so long and I’m getting tired of it.” He sighed, as his chest felt tight, and his throat hurt from suppressed tears. 

“You… you’re everything to me.” Sherlock let the words out along with his breath and felt a bit lighter immediately. It was most probable that John wouldn’t remember anything of this night but, even if he did, Sherlock needed to say it all out loud before it was too late. “You saved me and gave me reasons to live, reasons to stay clean. The need to escape this world abated once you became a part of my life because it became a world I wanted to live in. I came to the realisation that a world with you in it was worth living in.” Sherlock’s hand hovered over John’s head for a moment, before he slid his fingers into the soft, short strands. “You can’t leave me,” a single sob shook his body before he stifled it yet again. “I can’t… I won’t live in a world without John Watson.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally receive the results of John’s test and discuss Sherlock’s reaction to John’s feeling unwell.

Sherlock woke up in John’s bed, panicking because he hadn’t stayed alert, instead letting his transport shut down for a few hours. The phone with a vibrating alarm had remained forgotten on the floor. Thankfully, the trickle of light from the window suggested that it was no later than six in the morning, so he wouldn’t have missed the results of John’s COVID-19 test coming in. Under normal circumstances, he was certain he would have heard the doorbell anyway. However, the last night and day had been far from normal, and his behaviour, as well as his emotional state, had been in shambles. 

Sitting up, Sherlock realised that all the covers were chaotically wrapped around him while John was sleeping on his side, in just his boxers. As if on cue, a shiver shook John’s body, but Sherlock didn’t think it had been from the cold. The deduction was confirmed when he touched John’s forehead and surmised that his body temperature was still too high, albeit not as much as the evening before.

After untangling himself from the duvet, he covered John, who, still fast asleep, took hold of Sherlock’s hand and pressed it to his chest. Curled on the side, now clutching Sherlock’s arm as if it were a raft on the ocean, John gave Sherlock little choice but to yield. Not complaining in the slightest, he lay behind the sleeping man and let him hold his hand as long as he wished. Releasing a sigh, Sherlock took comfort from the proximity as it allowed him to hear John’s breathing, which was raspy, but steady and strong.

Only moments passed before a doorbell rang and Sherlock’s eyes flew open. 

The results.

Reluctantly, gently, but with a sense of urgency, he took his hand from John’s grasp and ran downstairs as if the house were on fire. An envelope slid through the letterbox in the door. The small metal cover made a clink as it closed and Sherlock lunged to catch the envelope before it reached the floor.

He ripped into it and read it fast before taking the stairs up two at a time. 

Bursting into John’s room, panting, he climbed on the bed on his knees. John was already awake, looking at him quizzically. He was sipping water, the bottle with pills in his hand. He’d clearly just taken the next dose. Good.

“Do you have the results?” John asked, straightening his back, finally catching up. 

“Negative!” Sherlock yelped, waving the letter before handing it to John. 

John read it quickly and smiled. 

“I still feel like shit, but this is good news.”

“Great news, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, taking John’s face in his hands and bringing his own close.

His laugh died down to a smile when he met John’s blue eyes, still shining with fever but relieved and… full of warm affection. 

Sherlock dropped his hands and cleared his throat, looking down as he scooted to the side of the bed, away from John. 

“I see you’ve taken the next dose --” Sherlock said, fixing his eyes on the bottle in John’s hands.

“Sherlock,” John interrupted him, then swallowed when Sherlock looked back to his face. “Thank you. I’m --, to be honest; I’m amazed, but not surprised. You took care of me… What made you… I mean, why?” John asked, but Sherlock could tell that the man was smart enough to have figured it out by now. He just wanted Sherlock to say it. 

John had either heard his whispers in the darkness of the night and accepted his words, or hadn't heard him and was simply grateful. Both were plausible explanations, but Sherlock chose to act as if he’d said nothing; as if he hadn’t poured his heart out. If John hadn’t heard it, it would be for the better. Sherlock had been scared and wanted his best friend to survive the night. His emotions had been running high and he’d been prone to emotional overload. To be honest with himself, he was still riding the wave of stress, anxiety and deep devotion to John.

John, who was still looking at him, expecting the answer.

“Because I care,” he replied after a long pause, his voice trembling slightly. “It’s what people do, isn't it? People care.” He thrust his hands into his hair and pulled, recalling his actions. “And it all resulted in my judgement being clouded by feelings to the point I was unable to function properly. Instead, I panicked and…” He shook his head, hardly believing he’d been so emotional, and clearly that malfunction hadn’t abated yet. 

John smiled fondly and opened his arms. 

“I know I’m sick, but come here.” He said it so softly, Sherlock was unable to stay away.

He scrambled closer, embracing his best friend, his anchor, his life partner, his John… 

“I know you care,” John said into Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve known for a while. I just didn’t know how much. Not until this night.”

Sherlock stiffened and tried to pull away, but John held him tight, keeping him in place. 

“I heard you… and I feel the same.”

The words hit Sherlock in the chest as if someone punched the air out of him with a sledgehammer. John cared as more than a doctor, or a friend. A flood of warmth spread in Sherlock’s chest at what that entailed. He hid his face in the crook of John’s neck and brushed his lips over the sweaty skin there. He was pushing his luck, but he’d been acting on instinct lately and had landed him in John’s arms.

“I’d really like to kiss you. Properly kiss you,” John said, his voice soft and contemplative as if the possibility of doing it had just occurred to him for the first time. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while now, but I was never sure how you’d react. Would you like that?”

Sherlock nodded against John’s neck as he couldn't trust his voice not to break now.

“That’s good. Maybe when I’m better, hm?” 

Sherlock nodded again. 

“It’s a date then.”

Sherlock smiled into John’s skin, relaxing even more, scooting that inch closer. 

“A date…” he murmured before a set of images hit his mind and he sat up abruptly. “You won’t take me to see a horrid sappy movie and then use cheesy pickup lines as you do with your girlfriends, will you?” he asked, suddenly horrified by the prospect.

“Oi!” John exclaimed, the high sound making him cough. He waved his hand looking for water, but he was shaking so profoundly, he couldn't reach for it. Sherlock put the glass to John’s lips and John’s fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s hand, still on the glass, as he took a sip. “I didn’t know you paid attention to my pick up lines,” he said with mirth when his cough subsided. He wiped the tears that had sprung to his eyes with the back of his hand and smiled. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in lieu of a reply. He’d paid attention to everything John had ever done, obviously.

“How does a dinner at Angelo’s sound and hopefully a nice, gruesome murder investigation after?”

“Oh John…” Sherlock said affectionately, aware that he’d never hoped to have someone understand him so well and be willing to accept him for who he really was. 

John laughed, wheezed, coughed, then laughed again at Sherlock’s expression. “God, how I lo --” he stopped, his face becoming serious the moment he saw Sherlock’s eyes blow wide open. John swallowed hard, and so did Sherlock. 

The sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat was loud in his ears as he waited for what John would say next. Will he deny his aborted confession? Or rather keep it for later, when he was certain it was exactly what he wanted to say?

“Can you hold me again, Sherlock?” John said upon regaining his composure. 

_ Anytime. Always. Forever. _

“If that’s what you want,” Sherlock said, still unsure if John was not just responding to Sherlock’s previous outbursts of affection.

“Only if you want it too.”

Sherlock nodded and watched John lay on his side in the same position as he had before. Taking a moment to look at the bed, the crumpled sheets and John among them, Sherlock sighed, hardly believing his luck. John would get better soon and, hopefully, they would be able to continue whatever they’d just started between them.

Sherlock crawled closer and plastered his cold body to John’s hot back. Tentatively, he reached over to place his hand over his best friend’s heart. It beat steady and strong. John laced their fingers together before he lifted them to place a kiss over Sherlock’s knuckles. A swirl of hot excitement bloomed in Sherlock’s abdomen before his cheeks pinkened.

“I know I’m a doctor and I shouldn’t say it, but it was worth getting sick for this,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s hand again.

“For making me panic and go nearly insane?” Sherlock muttered into John’s nape.

“To see the real Sherlock.”

Sherlock harrumphed indignantly, knowing that showing the real Sherlock to anyone but John had always resulted in his emotional pain.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me,” John continued, his tone serious. 

“You would have done the same; most probably, a lot better than me,” Sherlock admitted, making John scoff with mirth at the rare admission.

“I didn't mean just the last two days. I meant everything you’ve done since we’ve met.”

“Everything?” Sherlock asked, genuinely befuddled. 

“What you said at night… You… you gave me a new life too. And now that I know how you feel, I want to tell you so much, but I’m tired now. I just want you to know that you don’t have to hide from me. You don’t have to change; I would never ask that of you. Just… don’t hide, not from me.”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Sherlock replied, feeling as much fear of exposure as trust in John, who had a unique proclivity to treat Sherlock like he truly cared. But it was true that John did care, they both did. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and without falling asleep, recalled the dream he’d had of John destroying the dam that held back the river of his feelings. There was no metaphorical dam holding his feelings in any more. It had crumbled with the help of the John in his head and his meticulous work with the chisel. Now, Sherlock could clearly imagine them together on the open river, in the same boat as the slow current took them towards a cosy cottage in Sussex. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comments! This story is now complete!  
>   
> If you enjoy my writing, consider subscribing to me: [CarmillaCarmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine)  
> >  
> If you'd like to read more angsty fics from me, check out my stand-alone stories grouped into a series, aptly named: [The Stories of Angst and Heartbreak ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004232)  
> >  
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> For queries connected with translating my work, please see my bio :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(PODFIC) Because I Care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132430) by [ohlooktheresabee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee)




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